The Cockie and Morrie
Posted: Wed Sep 07, 2011 3:10 pm
Can't remember if I put this one up.
The Cockie and Morrie
It wasn’t all that long ago when tuning to my radio,
they talked about one’s first owned car; the one that made you feel a star.
Their talk then made me reminisce on my old mate, whose name is Chris.
He was a Cockie’s son of note who sometimes liked to play the goat.
His car was not a brand new one and given to him by his Mum,
a Morris ‘Thousand’ was the breed and always smelt of aniseed.
Now Chris was proud of his old wheels, disliking flash automobiles;
green army paint that had no shine and three speed gearbox with a whine.
Each town has their fair share of hoons who drive around and act like goons,
and always like to flout the law with green light burn outs by the score.
The Brady Boys thought it was beaut when driving their ‘hot’ F.C. ute,
to hurl abuse and pick on Chris and his old morrie they’d dismiss.
At times when Chris was driving home (stopped at the lights of Sturt and Rome)
the Brady boys would point and joke then leave a cloud of rubber smoke.
This never worried Chris at all; the jeering and the names they’d call,
He knew one day he'd get his own and leave those boys to moan and groan.
So us four mates were in good cheer enjoying Chris’s ice cold beer,
when he then turned to us and said ‘The Morrie’s engine’s almost dead’.
We then remembered Harry Goade (who lives a short walk down the road)
now at the age of eighty five was told he could no longer drive.
His ‘Premier’ was now on blocks without the wheels and springs or shocks.
The H.T. soon will only be a piece of Harry’s history.
So down to Harry’s we all strolled, while hoping he could be cajoled
To sell the engine would be neat, including gearbox, what a treat.
We scored the gearbox and the donk by parting with four casks of plonk,
then stashed the lot in Jacko’s van to head for Chris’s with a plan.
Now Mike our student engineer had made it all so very clear,
there’s not a lot we’d have to do to make old Morrie good as new.
For three long nights we toiled and cut and laughed when Macca burnt his butt.
Supporting brackets welded right it truly was an awesome sight.
Front springs rebuilt by Macca’s mate would counteract the extra weight,
the tail shaft cut and welded true; a ‘Humber’ diff was fitted too.
For an exhaust we thought new pipes, but knew there were so many types.
We could go stainless, that’s the go, but Chris spoke up and shouted, ‘No’!
I’d like my Morrie sounding like he always has, with his old pipe
and not be like those Brady boys with their chrome pipes and other toys.
With three reducers now in use and not to mention some abuse,
the old exhaust was straight and true; the 186, she ran like new.
You couldn’t even hear a sound with that old faded hood locked down,
and what was done no one would know, until they saw old Morrie go.
Chris practised hard behind that wheel to take off quick and not to squeal
the skinny tyres still on the back, or leave a big long trail of black.
He knew his time was drawing near; he’d show those Brady boys his rear,
his take offs he’d got down just pat, like ‘out of hell just like a bat’.
At times when we were heading home at ‘Bluey’s’ pub on Sturt and Rome,
we’d often stop and then we’d share a drink with friends who met us there.
This intersection had some lights attracting ‘tricked up’ flash car sights,
Past here the road was long and straight, and afternoons were ‘copper’ bait.
Right then was when we called with glee as Chris pulled up for all to see
beside the Brady boys’ F.C, they laughed and jeered abusively.
Then on the footpath we all stood and backing Chris like good mates should,
the barmaids even left the bar to watch Chris in his Morris car.
Excitement grew to fever pitch; the old F.C. was smelling rich,
now silence fell upon the crowd because the ute was revving loud.
The lights turned green beneath the sun, the F.C’s wheels just, spun and spun,
producing thick smoke by the score just like they’d always done before.
But Chris was calm and didn’t flinch determined not to give an inch.
The Brady boys got one big fright when ‘Morrie’ disappeared from sight.
The crowd all laughed right where they stood; the Brady boys were humbled good,
but not the cop who saw the show, he booked those boys then called a tow.
Chris soon returned to face his fate and as we stood next to our mate,
the copper gave a piercing stare, and then told Chris he must take care.
Our cockie mate got off scot-free; the copper said, “What I could see,
in this thing can’t see how you sped although you left those boys for dead”.
“It’s not a crime when at the lights, avoiding any road rage fights
to take off quick, but better heed, don’t let me catch you if you speed.”
Those Brady boys they lost their ute; the townsfolk thought it was a hoot
that these three boys were off to jail, for stealing cars while out on bail.
Chris kept old Morrie for some time and hardly had to spend a dime,
though in his pocket made a dip and bought a chrome exhaust pipe tip.
Around the bar where yarns are spread, there’s one that one day might be read.
The story is still told today, how Morrie blew those boys away.
David J Delaney
03/08/2010 ©
The Cockie and Morrie
It wasn’t all that long ago when tuning to my radio,
they talked about one’s first owned car; the one that made you feel a star.
Their talk then made me reminisce on my old mate, whose name is Chris.
He was a Cockie’s son of note who sometimes liked to play the goat.
His car was not a brand new one and given to him by his Mum,
a Morris ‘Thousand’ was the breed and always smelt of aniseed.
Now Chris was proud of his old wheels, disliking flash automobiles;
green army paint that had no shine and three speed gearbox with a whine.
Each town has their fair share of hoons who drive around and act like goons,
and always like to flout the law with green light burn outs by the score.
The Brady Boys thought it was beaut when driving their ‘hot’ F.C. ute,
to hurl abuse and pick on Chris and his old morrie they’d dismiss.
At times when Chris was driving home (stopped at the lights of Sturt and Rome)
the Brady boys would point and joke then leave a cloud of rubber smoke.
This never worried Chris at all; the jeering and the names they’d call,
He knew one day he'd get his own and leave those boys to moan and groan.
So us four mates were in good cheer enjoying Chris’s ice cold beer,
when he then turned to us and said ‘The Morrie’s engine’s almost dead’.
We then remembered Harry Goade (who lives a short walk down the road)
now at the age of eighty five was told he could no longer drive.
His ‘Premier’ was now on blocks without the wheels and springs or shocks.
The H.T. soon will only be a piece of Harry’s history.
So down to Harry’s we all strolled, while hoping he could be cajoled
To sell the engine would be neat, including gearbox, what a treat.
We scored the gearbox and the donk by parting with four casks of plonk,
then stashed the lot in Jacko’s van to head for Chris’s with a plan.
Now Mike our student engineer had made it all so very clear,
there’s not a lot we’d have to do to make old Morrie good as new.
For three long nights we toiled and cut and laughed when Macca burnt his butt.
Supporting brackets welded right it truly was an awesome sight.
Front springs rebuilt by Macca’s mate would counteract the extra weight,
the tail shaft cut and welded true; a ‘Humber’ diff was fitted too.
For an exhaust we thought new pipes, but knew there were so many types.
We could go stainless, that’s the go, but Chris spoke up and shouted, ‘No’!
I’d like my Morrie sounding like he always has, with his old pipe
and not be like those Brady boys with their chrome pipes and other toys.
With three reducers now in use and not to mention some abuse,
the old exhaust was straight and true; the 186, she ran like new.
You couldn’t even hear a sound with that old faded hood locked down,
and what was done no one would know, until they saw old Morrie go.
Chris practised hard behind that wheel to take off quick and not to squeal
the skinny tyres still on the back, or leave a big long trail of black.
He knew his time was drawing near; he’d show those Brady boys his rear,
his take offs he’d got down just pat, like ‘out of hell just like a bat’.
At times when we were heading home at ‘Bluey’s’ pub on Sturt and Rome,
we’d often stop and then we’d share a drink with friends who met us there.
This intersection had some lights attracting ‘tricked up’ flash car sights,
Past here the road was long and straight, and afternoons were ‘copper’ bait.
Right then was when we called with glee as Chris pulled up for all to see
beside the Brady boys’ F.C, they laughed and jeered abusively.
Then on the footpath we all stood and backing Chris like good mates should,
the barmaids even left the bar to watch Chris in his Morris car.
Excitement grew to fever pitch; the old F.C. was smelling rich,
now silence fell upon the crowd because the ute was revving loud.
The lights turned green beneath the sun, the F.C’s wheels just, spun and spun,
producing thick smoke by the score just like they’d always done before.
But Chris was calm and didn’t flinch determined not to give an inch.
The Brady boys got one big fright when ‘Morrie’ disappeared from sight.
The crowd all laughed right where they stood; the Brady boys were humbled good,
but not the cop who saw the show, he booked those boys then called a tow.
Chris soon returned to face his fate and as we stood next to our mate,
the copper gave a piercing stare, and then told Chris he must take care.
Our cockie mate got off scot-free; the copper said, “What I could see,
in this thing can’t see how you sped although you left those boys for dead”.
“It’s not a crime when at the lights, avoiding any road rage fights
to take off quick, but better heed, don’t let me catch you if you speed.”
Those Brady boys they lost their ute; the townsfolk thought it was a hoot
that these three boys were off to jail, for stealing cars while out on bail.
Chris kept old Morrie for some time and hardly had to spend a dime,
though in his pocket made a dip and bought a chrome exhaust pipe tip.
Around the bar where yarns are spread, there’s one that one day might be read.
The story is still told today, how Morrie blew those boys away.
David J Delaney
03/08/2010 ©
